A Very Vegas Christmas
by KADH
Summary: Six moms a swinging. Five reindeer crashing. Four elves a thieving. Three Santas packing. Two families clashing. One killer shift. Prequel to "Special." Takes place Christmas 2012.
1. Twas the Night Before Christmas

**A Very Vegas Christmas**

Six moms a swinging

Five reindeer crashing

Four elves a thieving

Three Santas packing

Two families clashing

One killer shift.

xxxxxxx

 _A little gift from the Ghost of Christmas Past_

 _More than a little late_

 _Like one of those presents you bought and wrapped ages ago_

 _but which somehow never managed_

 _to make it under the tree:_

 _Some not so little holiday mischief in five parts_

 _An episode in prose form -_

 _because some of us just have to do everything the hard way_

 _and can never just leave well enough alone._

xxxxxxx

 _Prequel to "Special."_

 _Takes place Christmas 2012._

xxxxxxx

Teaser

 **"'Twas the Night before Christmas"**

' _Twas the night before Christmas..._

And Las Vegas is anything but snug it its bed...

 _When all through the house..._

Out in Winchester, the Moore family table groans with all the wonders of a real Christmas Eve feast: turkey, ham, roast beef, casseroles of all colors, all the accoutrements and then some.

Only the overturned chairs and hurriedly cast off cutlery belie the bountiful setting.

 _Not a creature was stirring -_

 _Not even a mouse._

Apart from the not so distant sound of retching.

While in front of The Fountains of Bellagio, a well-heeled couple canoodles to the final, fading notes of the casino's holiday water, light and music spectacular.

The perfect end to a perfect night.

Except for one hitch.

When the man reaches into his coat for his car keys, he finds his wallet's missing.

Too busy frantically patting his pockets, he doesn't notice the elfin-clad little person slip the billfold into his costume before melting into the crowd unobserved.

 _The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,_

 _In hopes that Saint Nicolas soon would be there._

It doesn't matter that the CCTV feed in the back room of the Pack 'n Carry records in old-school black-and-white, there's no mistaking the pompom-hatted, fake beard wearing, Christmas costumed, rifle-toting trio barging in barrels blazing.

Santa Claus has come to town definitely wanting something a lot stronger than milk and cookies.

 _The children were nestled all snug in their beds..._

Down along The Strip, the uber-kitschy The Toy Box resembles more war zone than toy store. End caps tilt precariously off-kilter; their boxes scattered, candy and toys explode across the floor.

Only there's no bomb. Just half a dozen bruised, ruffled and bedraggled women - and one far too fashionably dressed to be straight man - attempting to wrestle themselves from the grasp of the entire security squad it takes to restrain them.

 _While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads._

All the while from atop his perch on a shelf above the counter the source of their conflict, this year's hottest and rarest, must-have "it" toy, the very last remaining Muddy Your Puppy Buddy, blithely surveys the damage.

 _And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap..._

Meanwhile, up on a Summerlin rooftop, the most garish, over-the-top, larger-than-life-sized Santa and his reindeer display irradiates the night.

Well, part of it does.

Half the reindeer sprawl haphazardly in the freshly fallen snow; two dangle over the edge from their halters.

And down on the ground, an unmistakably red-nosed Rudolph pins a wide-eyed, but definitely dead Clyde Matthews into the snow.

 _Had just settled our brain for a long winter's nap..._

xxxxxxx

"'Twas the Night before Christmas'? _Really,_ Greg?"

Festive, Julie Finlay's tone was anything but.

"And I thought Sara was cranky at Christmas," Greg Sanders muttered and electing to exchange recitation for munching, reached for a sprinkle-coated cookie from the heaping platter in the center of the break room table.

For her part, Finn opted to ignore this as she emptied the last remaining dregs from the coffee pot into her mug.

"Where is Sara anyway?" asked Morgan Brody, sipping at her own coffee. "It's not like her to be late for shift."

Greg's impish "Playing hooky?" only earned him a withering glare from both women.

"What?" he shrugged. "Grissom just got home -"

"Not exactly," Nick Stokes corrected as he entered, a towering stack of assignment slips in hand. "Guess his latest consulting gig ran over."

"That's been happening a lot lately," Morgan observed into her mug.

"Yeah, I probably wouldn't mention that around Sara if I were -"

Nick's voice trailed off. For as if the mere mention of her name could conjure her into being, Sara Sidle, slightly breathless and still clad in her coat, charged into the break room.

"Sorry I'm late," she began, dusting a smattering of snow from her shoulders. "It's really coming down out there. Never would have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself."

Greg smirked. "Not dreaming of a white Christmas?"

Sara scoffed. "That's the last thing I'm dreaming of. People are crazy enough this time of year."

"Well, they don't call it _the holiday shift from hell_ for nothing."

Finn gave Greg an even more dismissive: "It can't be _that_ bad."

Nick laughed. "Spoken like a true Christmas in Las Vegas virgin. Remind us how you managed to miss out on the fun last year - again."

"Blood splatter seminar in Miami."

"Miami in December," mused Greg. "So not feeling sorry for you about that one."

Sara, not even bothering to sit, only sighed, "All I know is no one in Vegas knows how to drive in the snow. I must have passed five accidents on the way here. Traffic's back up for miles."

"Like you can talk California girl," teased Greg.

"Harvard. Four years - well, three. Experienced plenty of snow, thank you very much."

Before the discussion could degenerate into any more of a proverbial pissing contest, Nick called the group to order. "Since we're all here -"

He scanned the top slip in his pile. "Looks like our Santa bandits are back again -"

Sara snagged the sheet. "Mine!"

And even before anyone else could utter a word, she was back out the door. There was however no missing the stoked determination in her, "And this year, they are _so_ going down."

"Someone's a little eager," grinned Morgan.

With a shake of the head, Nick quipped, "Definitely wouldn't want to be wearing a Santa suit tonight."

"Santa bandits?" asked Finn.

Greg leapt in to explain. "Every Christmas like clockwork. Three guys. Random liquor stores all over the city. No prints. Only ID: Santa Claus."

"What makes you think it's the same guys?"

Morgan leaned back in her chair. "How many rifle-toting Santas can there be - even in Vegas?"

 _True._

Captain Jim Brass popped his head in. "Nicky, I gotta steal Morgan for the night. FOS business."

Both Nick and Greg exchanged identical _better you than me_ grins, which Morgan returned with an eye roll and a "Thanks, guys." To Brass she asked, "What's the case?"

"Pickpocket sting over at the Bellagio."

Grabbing one final cookie for the road, she slipped on her coat. "Well, nothing says 'Merry Christmas' like having your wallet stolen."

Nick turned to Finn. "You're with Russell. Desert Palms. Food poisoning case. Suspicious circs. _"_

There was definitely no mistaking the sarcasm in Finn's: "And he didn't want me to miss out on the fun. How thoughtful."

Nick passed her the slip. " _Bon appétit._ "

Whether it was this or Greg's gleeful, "Just remember it's the most wonderful time of the year," if looks could kill, they would have been short at least one CSI that shift, probably two.

"Guess that just leaves you and me, cowboy," Nick said. "And since your so keen on snow -" He handed Greg the third slip. "Looks like grandpa got run over by a reindeer."

"It's grandma -"

"Not this time. 419. Summerlin. Merry Christmas."

Greg gone, Nick staring down at the last slip, mused:

"So much for a silent night -"


	2. Family Feud

Act One

 **"Family Feud"**

Decked out as it was with forests of gaudily ornamented trees, seemingly interminable lengths of faux greenery and their accompanying tawdry bright red velvet bows and what had to be mind-numbing miles of ever-blinking holiday lights, even Desert Palm's typically sterile environs had taken up a merry mien that night. Not that Finn really noticed or actually much cared, intent as she was in locating the night duty nurse.

Kit in hand, she approached the nurse's station, held up her badge to the holiday scrub wearing, but definitely not festive feeling - if her harassed, scrunched-tight expression was any indication - nurse busily ensconced there.

"Crime Lab. Looking for Russell."

But before the harried nurse had a chance to reply, the loud retch and attendant splash reverberating from several doors down told Finn all she needed to know.

"Never mind -"

And as officious as ever, she headed down the hall, only to nearly crash into D.B. Russell as he ducked out of an exam room, the better to give the poor sufferer some modicum of privacy.

"Thought the whole family was coming into town," was all Finn gave by way of greeting.

Russell shrugged. "Already here. But the health department called. No staff and twelve cases of apparent food poisoning. Could be nothing -"

"Or a mutant strain of _E. coli,_ listeria or any number of potential super bugs."

"And with more than three thousand people dying of food poisoning every year -"

"You can't be too careful," sighed Finn. "So here we are."

"Here we are," he agreed then indicated the door. "That was my last interview. None of them seem to have eaten anywhere but home."

"That's lucky."

"Unlucky for them in this case. Guess the whole family was really looking forward to the big traditional Christmas Eve feast."

Perplexed, Finn asked, "Since when is a Christmas Eve feast traditional?"

"Apparently since always for the Moores. They all say the same thing. They were almost done with dinner when -"

Another loud retch interrupted him.

Finn nodded in comprehension.

Holding up several biohazard bags, their attendant flowers blooming bright, he said, "Thought we'd drop these off at the lab before heading to the house. Give us an idea what to look for."

"Sounds like a plan."

The din of vomiting both escalating and ever-multiplying, the already disgruntled nurse pushed past them.

Russell, placid as ever, called after her, "We'll be taking that to go."

xxxxxxx

The two had barely stepped out of the cold and into the quiet bustle of the lab when Russell's phone let out its usual insistent peal.

Glancing down at the caller ID, Russell motioned vaguely towards his office. "I'll be right there," he murmured distractedly. "Just got to get this."

Already all too aware of who was on the other end of the line, Finn didn't even bother to ask. And not for the first time was she genuinely glad family was not something she had to deal with right now. Work was enough of a handful all on it's own.

Evidence in hand, she headed off to Trace.

"Just the two I'm looking for -" she began.

Except the sight of Henry Andrews and David Hodges hard at work inside cut short the rest of her acknowledgment. The _at work_ part on its own wasn't unusual enough of an occurrence to leave her uncharacteristically wonderstruck. It was precisely what they were _at work at_ that had her baffled.

A be-goggled Henry bent over a fire-belching Bunsen burner taking the temperature of a rapidly boiling colorless solution. At another counter, Hodges weighed out what looked suspiciously like butter onto a piece of aluminum foil. Both toiled with all the glee of a couple of kids at Christmas.

It was nauseating really.

"What are -" she was about to ask, but swiftly changed her mind. "You know maybe I really don't want to know."

Hodges didn't even bother to look up. "Partial thermal degradation of carbon dioxide formed saccharides with protein inclusions," he explained.

Which didn't ring a bell.

Carefully tapping a white powder into his solution, Henry, in an attempt to be helpful, translated, "We're making peanut brittle."

It was all Finn could do to keep herself from repeating _Peanut brittle_?

"You do realize we already have the health department breathing down our necks tonight."

"We always use fresh glassware," came his unconcerned reply.

Finn shook her head. "You're nuts."

"Technically," countered Henry, pouring peanuts into the beaker, "they're legumes."

About to protest - challenge - sigh - anything, but realizing the utter futility of doing so, Finn opted instead to steer the subject into more productive waters.

"Got something for you."

Henry gave her such a hopeful, "Presents?" she actually chuckled.

Then deciding she might as well give as good as she got, she replied with a puckish smile of her own, "If you want to think of them that way."

This got both of their attentions.

"You shouldn't have -" Hodges said as Finn began to carefully unpack her samples.

Selecting one, Henry gave the jar a wary study. "You _really_ shouldn't have."

Unfazed, Finn offered, "Stomach contents from our dozen potential food poisoning victims."

Henry muttered, "Think I would have preferred coal."

Hodges readily agreed.

"Probably some in there somewhere," came Russell's reply from behind them. Without missing a beat, he added, "Need full tox, trace and culture."

Both tech's faces fell, but only Hodges had the gumption to ask, "Tonight?"

"More like yesterday," Russell returned. "If we've got some sort of outbreak on our hands we need to know right away."

Then request, or rather orders, imparted, he indicated that he and Finn should head back out.

Halfway on their way to the door, Henry called them back with a practically panicked, "Wait, did you say _dozen_ victims?"

Russell nodded nonchalantly. "There are blood samples in there too. Should keep you two out of trouble for a little while."

And with a knowing sort of smile, he went.

Finn loitered long enough to wish them an almost too cheery, "Merry Christmas."

The two lab rats simply stood there stunned.

"Uh, guys -" She gestured towards their now smoking experiment. "Your -"

This time Hodges' didn't even finish his far less enthusiastic: "Partial thermal degradation..."

Going, Finn waved it away anyway. "Whatever. It's burning."

When from behind her erupted a loud crash, sharp shatter and several resultant curses, Finn found she had a hard time containing her smirk.

xxxxxxx

Stepping into the Moore's split level ranch out in Winchester, there was no doubting the day. The place reeked of Christmas. The rosemary and sage hints of roast turkey, the almost burnt caramel sweetness of baked ham, the warm yeasty smell of fresh rolls, the piquant cinnamon of apple pie, the nutmeg richness of pumpkin, it was enough to make your mouth water if you didn't know poison potentially lurked somewhere amongst all that bounty.

Even Finn was impressed. "Wow, you weren't kidding. That's some spread."

"All that's missing is the figgy pudding."

"What is figgy pudding anyway?"

"No clue," admitted Russell, continuing his examination. His phone buzzed. "You got some news for us, Henry?"

Over the speaker, Henry's slightly tinny voice replied, "Whatever you're looking for it's not bacterial."

"So no superbug then?" asked Finn.

"Not this time. Drug screen came up clean, too. Hodges is still working on trace. He should be able to tell you more soon."

Russell thanked him before clicking off.

"So if it's not drug or bacterial - environmental?" proposed Finn.

Her gaze settled on the myriad of potted poinsettias lining the living room fireplace. Going in for a closer look, she asked, "Aren't poinsettias poisonous?"

Joining her, Russell gave the cream and crimson plants an appreciative once-over.

" _Euphorbia pulcherrima."_ He considered this for a moment. "Stomach and skin irritant. Can cause vomiting and diarrhea when eaten. But only mildly toxic at best," he concluded. "A fifty pound kid would have to consume about five hundred leaves before you'd reach any serious level of toxicity. Not that you could tell Barb's family that. Had to put the plants away when they visited.

"Silly really. The bracts are almost painfully bitter. No one would voluntarily eat more than one."

"So no way to accidentally ingest them?"

"Probably not."

Returning to their inspection of the house, Russell almost absently observed, "Poinsettias aren't even all that traditional. Didn't become popular in the U.S. until the mid 20th Century.

"Did you know that until the 90's, nearly every holiday poinsettia came from a single farm in California owned by Albert Ecke and his family? The guy pioneered a way to graft two varieties together to produce fuller, prettier plants since poinsettias are naturally weedy looking and not very attractive. Then in a fit of genius, he sent cuttings to _The Tonight Show_ and all of Bob Hope's Christmas specials causing the plants to became an instant sensation."

"The miracles of modern marketing," Finn opined. "What happened after the nineties? Family go out of business?"

"Nope. Same family still grows most of them. It's just a whole lot cheaper to grow them somewhere else."

"Wow, even poinsettias get outsourced these days."

Russell's phone let out another peal. Without bothering with a greeting, he said, "What's the verdict, Hodges?"

"Just an ordinary case of food poisoning."

"I thought Henry said there was no sign of bacterial contamination," Finn protested.

"Not that kind of food poisoning. Actual poisoning," Hodges corrected. "As in literally poisoned."

Russell asked, "Intentional you mean?"

"Unless you know of a holiday recipe which employs mistletoe berries."

Neither could keep the surprise from their chorus of " _Mistletoe berries?_ "

"Found traces of phoratoxin, a plant-based poison produced by mistletoe, specifically by _Phoradendron serontinum,_ American Mistletoe. It's distinguishable from European or Californian varieties as its protein chain contains the amino acid tryptophan."

Finn asked. "The stuff in turkey that makes you sleepy, tryptophan?"

"The very same."

"Explains all the drowsiness the victims presented," nodded Russell. "You got a list of the other known symptoms for phoratoxin toxicity?"

"Can cause blurred vision, stomach pain, diarrhea, nausea, vomiting and weakness."

"That definitely tallies with the health histories. Thanks, Hodges."

Not quite ready to be dismissed just yet, Hodges cut in, "Did you know that the term 'mistletoe' originated from the Anglo-Saxon 'mistel tan,' which roughly translates as 'bird dung on a twig'?

"Not very appetizing if you ask me."

And on that note, Russell hung up.

"So definitely not poison by poinsettia," summed up Finn.

"Mischief by mistletoe."

Absolutely not wishing to be caught underneath said plant unaware, Finn warily scanned for any low-hanging boughs. She needn't have bothered.

"Just one problem. I'm not seeing any mistletoe. Are you?" she asked.

A canvass of the rest of the house produced the same results. Nothing.

"Trash?" suggested Finn.

In the kitchen, she lifted the lid of the virtually overflowing can and peered inside. "And the Moores were thoughtful enough not to empty it yet."

Carefully, she extracted the black liner and set it down on the pristine kitchen floor before deftly slicing it open.

Unsurprisingly it was full of the usual food detritus: dirtied paper towels, tin cans, orange peels, potatoes skins, meat off cuts, the slimy remains of turkey gizzards and giblets.

Finn turned her nose up at those. "You know, I'm starting to see the appeal of becoming a vegetarian."

But Russell was too busy examining a sprig he'd unearthed from amongst a pile of coffee grounds.

" _Phoradendron serontinum?"_ asked Finn.

He turned the stem, intently eying the bright, shiny obovate leaves. "Looks like it. But where are the berries?"

Only the table would tell. They scanned the long line of still heaping dishes.

"Could cook it into a sauce," Finn proposed, giving the gravy a cautious sniff and stir.

"Berries are pretty potent. Definitely off putting -"

" - Unless you're a bird -"

"Still you'd have to pair them with something awfully tart to mask the taste."

Finn suggested, "Hide them in the stuffing?"

Russell picked through the platter. "Just chestnuts and cranberries. No mistletoe."

"Speaking of cranberries -"

Immediately their eyes settled on a nearly empty bowl of an almost menacingly blood-red hued cranberry salad.

"Must be a family favorite."

Finn leaned in. "Hand me a fork, will you?"

At the concerned look he was giving her, she let out an exasperated sigh of "I'm not going to eat it, Russell."

Instead she dug amongst the ground cranberries, finely chopped pieces of apple, celery dices, bits of nuts and chopped pineapple for a minute before carefully extracting a tiny, perfectly round, almost translucent pearl from the mélange.

"Merry Christmas," she said, and actually sounded it.

Russell gave her an approving nod. "So we have the what -"

"All we need is the who," Finn finished.

"And the why. I mean who would attempt to poison their family at Christmas?"

Finn gave him a wry sort of smile. "You've obviously never met any of my former in-laws."

xxxxxxx

"What do you mean there's something wrong with Mamma Moore's salad?" boomed a weak, but definitely irate Walter Moore. IV drip in one arm and confined to a hospital bed apparently made little difference, he was hopping mad.

"Mama Moore?" Finn inquired gently, hoping her tone might calm him. It didn't. If anything, he went even darker.

"That's her salad. I mean it ain't world famous or nothing, but you don't mess with Mama's salad."

"She around here somewhere?" Russell asked, not recalling interviewing anyone going by that name during his initial investigation.

Walter scoffed. "Not unless this is Woodlawn Cemetery. Mama's been dead these two years now."

"So who made the salad this year?"

Surprisingly Moore softened at this. If anything, he looked rather proud. "My Susan. Mama said she wouldn't trust anyone but her with the recipe."

"I know this may sound like a weird question," Russell began, "but mistletoe isn't some sort of secret ingredient, is it?"

As if it were obvious, Walter jeered, "Mistletoe ain't for eating, man. It's for kissing."

"Right," deadpanned Finn.

xxxxxxx

"Sure, I made the salad," Susan Moore readily admitted from her bed two doors down. "But I don't know anything about any mistletoe. I followed Mama's recipe exactly. There are just some things you don't mess with."

The next several follow-up interviews went very much the same. No one admitted to adulterating it; Mama Moore's salad was sacrosanct.

This line of questioning quickly getting them no where, Finn decided to go for a different tact.

"You remember any one _not_ eating the salad?" she asked Samuel Moore.

Walter's younger brother gave this a long thought before counting out his reply on his fingers. "Martin didn't, but then he's allergic. Nuts. And little Phillip's a picky eater. Won't eat nothin' but yogurt. Lisa didn't. She don't eat nothin' either. Says she's trying to reduce. More like if she don't make it, she don't eat it.

"Unless it was Mama's cooking. Mama could get anyone to eat anything. Didn't matter what it was. Pigs feet, chicken livers, chitlins. Didn't matter."

Samuel suddenly got an almost misty eyed look to him. "Man could she cook. But it was her cranberry salad we could never get enough of. Even Lisa. But not this year. Or the last. Just plain old spite if you ask me."

"Why is that?" came Russell's quietly curious query.

"Cause Mamma gave Susan the recipe and not her."

xxxxxxx

From his bed, James Moore let out a low groan. "Probably serves me right," he muttered. "Lisa told me to leave that salad alone. But I couldn't resist. Been eating Mama's salad since before I could talk. It just ain't Christmas without it - Or her."

"Your wife told you not to? Why?" asked Finn.

"She's been badmouthing the stuff ever since Mama gave the recipe to Susan, you know, Walter's wife."

Finn and Russell exchanged looks. "Where's Lisa now, Mr. Moore?"

The youngest Moore brother shrugged. "Said something about getting coffee in the cafeteria downstairs."

xxxxxxx

At a secluded table in the far corner they found Lisa Moore nervously sipping at a steaming cup.

They didn't even have to read her her rights.

"Yeah, I did it," she readily admitted. "Just wanted them to see Susan's cooking wasn't all that."

As a uniform led her away, Russell sighed, "So much for _peace on earth, goodwill towards men_."

Finn was still aghast. "All this over a recipe?"

Russell shook his head. "More than that. Over a mother-in-law's love."

xxxxxxx

A/N: As for Hodges and Henry's _partial thermal degradation of carbon dioxide formed saccharides with protein inclusion experiment_ , I can recall with a great deal of fondness doing this precise lab in AP chemistry more years ago than I want to admit to. Mind you my results turned out a lot better than theirs. But then I didn't have a bevy of body fluids to distract me.

Curious to try it out on your own? You'll find the scientific protocols below. Lab instructions courtesy of R.C. Adams, _Journal of Chemical Education_ (1972). Reproduced for educational purposes only.

 **Attempt at your own risk.**

Chemicals:

Sucrose

3 M Glucose Solution

Mixed Esters (solidified)

NaCl

Protein Pellets

NaHCO3

4-hydroxy-3 methoxybenzaldehyde

Distilled water

Equipment:

Hotplate

1 - 250 mL Beaker (sterilized)

1 - 400 mL Beaker (sterilized)

Glass Stirring Rod (sterilized)

Balance

Aluminum Foil

Wax Paper

Temperature probe and laptop

All equipment coming in contact with reagents must be washed with soap and water and rinsed completely with distilled water prior to lab activity using standard laboratory practice. All labware used in this experiment must be clean and free from laboratory chemicals.

Procedure:

1\. Weigh 75.0 grams of sucrose into the 260 ml beaker. Transfer sucrose to the 400 ml beaker.

2\. Weigh 62.0 grams of 3 M glucose solution into the 250 ml beaker.

3\. Pour the glucose into the 400 ml beaker. Use a total of 19.0 mL of

newly opened distilled water in two batches to rinse the small receptacle and add rinsing to the large receptacle.

4\. Heat mixture slowly, hotplate on low setting. Stir constantly. Bring to a boil. Boil continuously for 5-7 minutes.

5\. Weigh out 9.5 grams of solidified mixed esters on waxed paper

6\. Add the mixed esters to the boiling glucose-sucrose solution

7\. Continue to heat and stir.

8\. Weigh 0.3 grams of NaCl and 55.0 grams of protein pellets onto waxed paper.

9\. Prepare the temperature probe by wrapping it in plastic wrap so that the metal probe is never directly in contact with the solution.

9\. When solution temperature reaches 138 °C, add the NaCl and protein pellets.

(If you do not have a device which is able to register a temperature this high, you must take a small drop of the sample of your hot solution, drop it into a beaker of cold water and make sure that the drop solidifies to a hard crystalline consistency.)

10\. Continue to stir.

11\. Weigh out 3.7 grams of NaHCO3 on waxed paper, and obtain 1.3mL of

4-hydroxy-3 methoxybenzaldehyde. Prepare a pad of folded paper towels.

12\. Lightly coat a 0.30 m square of Al foil with solidified mixed esters

13\. When temperature reaches 154°C, remove the flame, place receptacle on pad.

14\. While one person holds the receptacle and is prepared to stir, have the other partner add the benzaldehyde and NaHCO3. Stir vigorously. As the mixture nears the top of the receptacle, pour evenly and thinly on the Al foil

15\. Allow to cool slowly and observe.

16\. While the mixture cools, thoroughly clean the stirring rod and beaker with lots of detergent.

17\. If you followed all the precautions, you may eat the product once it has cooled. Be careful not to chip any teeth.


	3. Santa Claus is Coming to Town

Act Two

 **"Santa Claus is Coming to Town** "

"Mandy, you up for -" began Sara, giving the door to the Print Lab a gentle knock. But her voice trailed off as she took in the pile of gaudily wrapped gifts populating the workstation. "Aren't those from the White Elephant exchange?"

"Uh huh," was all Mandy Webster replied, intent as she was on lifting a print from a section of scotch tape with all her usual well-practiced deftness. Smoothing the print onto a card, she set it down beside a series of several others. Magnifying loop in hand, she examined each closely before letting out a long sigh, "At least wear gloves when you replace the tape, guys."

Then with a shake of the head, she murmured a derisive, " _Amateurs._ "

That the White Elephant exchange regularly involved peeking didn't really come as much of a surprise to Sara. But Mandy was right, the guys should have known better than to leave such obvious evidence of said snooping behind.

"You up for a real challenge?" she asked.

Intrigued, Mandy looked up.

"Involves a field trip," Sara supplied.

This was obviously not the right inducement. "In this weather?"

Sara shrugged her _why not_. "Liquor store robbery. Gonna be a mother lode of prints. And I've got _this,_ " she said extracting a jar from her pocket with a flourish.

Mandy's eyes went wide.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Red Creeper?" Sara nodded. Not that one could mistake the phosphorescent cochineal colored pigment inside. "Serious job requires a serious powder."

Mandy readily exchanged her lab coat for one of the winter variety. "I'm in."

The two of them were on their way out the door when Mandy asked, "This mean you managed to wheedle the recipe out of him?"

Drawing her coat tighter about herself, Sara almost snorted. "Out of Grissom? Not a chance."

"So much for spousal privileges," Mandy rejoined, sounding more than a little disappointed at the discovery.

Sara wasn't. Finger print powder formulations not withstanding, marriage had proven to have plenty of privileges and far more pleasant benefits, even if they had proven fewer and far more far between as of late. But she wasn't about to tell Mandy either of that. She didn't need to in any case, her expression said it plainly enough.

 _But Grissom?_ Mandy thought and not for the first time.

Like she had once overheard Nick say to Greg, that was way too much like thinking about your parents.

"You know," Sara cut in to Mandy's rapidly twisting musings, much to the print tech's obvious relief, "you could always ask Hodges to run a sample of it through the FTIR to get the components. But then you'd owe Hodges -"

Mandy secured her scarf with a tug. "Yeah, so not going to happen."

In the midst of her popping open the Denali's driver side door, Sara's phone let out an insistent peal.

"Sidle."

Even without the phone being on speaker, Conrad Ecklie's voice came through loud and clear.

"Stokes says you're handling the Santa case -"

But before Sara could even confirm this, he plowed on with a terse, "Just try to keep the whole thing out of the media. The last thing we need on the news Christmas morning is 'Rifle Toting Santas Strike Again.'"

And with that he hung up.

"Not in the holiday mood?" asked Mandy.

This time Sara actually scoffed. "If you're the Grinch."

"Ooh," Mandy cooed, "with his heart five sizes too small?"

xxxxxxx

That the Christmas Spirit was in short supply at the local Pack 'n Carry down on Industrial went without saying. By the time Sara and Mandy arrived at the scene, owner Su-lyn Lee was several stages passed livid.

"I call two hours ago and you just get here now?! Two hours!" she protested. "How long you think I can keep store closed anyway? Christmas Eve one of busiest days of the year!"

"For liquor?" Mandy asked as she and Sara began unpacking their cases.

Ever matter of fact, Lee replied, "You never meet my mother-in-law. You do, you understand."

Sara, busily snapping on her gloves, found she certainly couldn't dispute this. In her experience, mother-in-laws did tend to have that effect: drive you to drink. Or at least be tempted to. Although to be fair, she did have to concede that she and Betty had been getting along significantly better over the last couple of years. Like Doc had once counseled, some things just took time. Of course as it turned out, displaying a little moxie hadn't hurt either.

But Sara didn't have long to linger over thoughts of Betty, Su-Lyn was still speaking, this time her voice dripping with undisguised disparagement, "I don't know why I bother. This third time in five years! Third time! And still you no catch them yet!"

She paused to take a gulp of air. Which Sara regarded as a good thing. That many exclamation points in one breath wasn't good for anyone.

Then as if the idea just struck her, Lee added, "Ah, that's right, no police report, no insurance claim. Want I write it for you?"

Lee didn't even wait for a reply and anyway Sara knew better than to argue. She simply silently motioned for Mandy to tackle the register while she started dusting the counter for prints herself. Mandy for her part looked like she was already beginning to rue leaving the lab.

"Let's see," Lee continued. "Three men barge in. With rifle. 'Give me money, honey,'" her lowered voice mocked. "'And don't forget the good stuff behind the counter.'

"Three bottles each. Each! And make sure to wrap them right, they say. Don't want them to break. Of course not. They almost worth more than till," she grumbled. "This not 'Merry Christmas,'" she insisted. "It 'Ho, ho, hold up,' if you ask me.

"Oh, and this very important clue."

Su-Lyn paused, the better to insure she had both women's attention.

"All three, they wear bright red suits, hats, white beards. Look just like bell ringer down the block!"

And with this, Lee stormed off in a huff to fume in the back.

Sara and Mandy exchanged looks.

"She for real?" Mandy murmured aghast.

"That was actually pretty tame for her," Sara reluctantly admitted and the two of them continued working, relishing the relative quiet.

xxxxxxx

Half an hour and enough print powder to leave them both luminous later, Mandy let out an exasperated sigh of "And I thought hotel rooms had tons of prints. We're going to be here until next Christmas."

"You still not done yet?!"

Mandy jumped.

Apparently whatever Lee had disappeared off to do hadn't sweetened her temper any. Stance rigidly akimbo, she glowered at them both.

Sara had to conceal a chuckle at the utter absurdity of it all under her officious, "You want to catch these guys?"

Lee made no immediate reply to this. She hovered for a moment, eying them intently.

"I don't know why _you_ bother," she said after a while. "They don't touch nothing. Always wear gloves."

 _And you couldn't have told us this earlier?_ Sara glared, but did not say.

Lee missed the message anyway.

"You can see for yourself," she said.

Surprised, Sara asked, "You got them on tape?"

Apart from the camera pointed at the register, most store surveillance frequently proved to be just for show as employees tended to be a bigger theft threat than armed robbers.

Lee snorted. "Tape? We go digital after the last time. Wanna see?"

And there they were in black and white, crashing through the front door rifles blaring: three utterly nondescript white males. Apart from the Santa suits.

Not that you could make out much of the details on the tiny monitors. But that was easily remedied.

Sara drew out her phone, dialed, but was startled to find it answered by a loud, almost maniacal cackling.

"Archie?"

The sound stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

"Sorry," came Archie Johnson's hurried reply. "Had a holiday classic playing in a window."

Unable to come up with a film that could possibly qualify, Sara looked to Mandy who proved equally flummoxed. She was just about to ask, when Archie insouciant as ever supplied: " _Gremlins_."

Sara shook her head. " _Miracle on 34th Street_ is a holiday classic -"

" _Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer_ -" supplied Mandy.

" _It's a Wonderful Life_ is a holiday classic," Sara insisted. " _Gremlins_ isn't even a Christmas mov- Oh, yeah, wait it is," she unwillingly admitted.

Archie let out a laugh. "Take it you've seen it then."

Sara was caught and knew it.

Thankfully, Mandy cut in with an almost absent sounding, "Except _Gremlins_ is more like one of those nightmares you get after eating way too many cookies before bed."

Sara goggled at her.

Mandy shrugged. "What? It happens."

Sara shook her head. "Back to the case. Archie, I'm emailing you a video file now."

"You want facial recognition?"

"I doubt Santa's in the system. Just want to know what they touched."

xxxxxx

"Nothing."

Sara's echoing " _Nothing_?" came out understandably hollow.

"Nothing," Archie confirmed. "Gloves stay on the entire time."

From her perch on a stool in one corner, Lee gave them an unhelpful _I told you so_ stare.

"I'll go through it again," he offered. "See if I catch anything useful."

Sara thanked him and hung up, only for her phone to buzz in her hand.

At the way Sara's face fell, Mandy inquired, "Ecklie again?"

"Worse," Sara groaned.

Not sure how this was possible, Mandy said, "Worse?"

Sara turned the screen to face her.

 **211 - 4080 Paradise Road - Santa Claus**

"Succinct, but precise," Mandy observed.

The Clauses had struck again.

xxxxxxx

There were four hits in total before the Santas stopped, finally satiated, at least for this year.

"And this is why I don't do field work," Mandy sighed, dusting herself off as she rose more than a little stiffly from where she'd been kneeling in front of the low counter of the tiny hole-in-the-wall mom-and-pop shop in Spring Valley.

All too familiar with such stiffness, Sara replied, "Be happy you're not a cockroach."

Mandy could imagine a million reasons for this, none was the one Sara finally supplied -

"They have eighteen knees."

"Ouch - And eww... But that doesn't really help."

"It usually doesn't," agreed Sara.

Both worn out from what had proven to be yet another wild goose, or rather Santa, chase, the two of them were genuinely relieved to be finishing the last of their packing up. They'd head back to the lab, see if there was anything they could salvage from the night. Although at this point, Sara seriously doubted it.

So when her phone let out another insistent jingle they both groaned.

"Not another one," moaned Mandy, resolving never to volunteer for another outside the lab assignment. Nick could dance naked, covered in Grissom's fingerprint power and decked out in a red bow, lovingly crooning Barry Manilow's "Mandy" throughout the lab and her answer would still be _Hell No!_

"Archie," Sara answered, taken aback herself.

Considering the lateness - or rather early nature - of the hour, Archie got right to the point. "One of your Santas has a sweet tooth."

Sara wasn't impressed. "Big surprise."

Neither was Mandy. "If only there was a plate of cookies lying around somewhere -"

"Not for cookies," Archie corrected. "Candy. Candy canes. You know the little mini ones -"

Comprehension began to dawn on Sara's face. "Su-lyn Lee had a bowl of them by her register -"

"Apparently he couldn't resist," added Archie. "Ate it on the spot."

Sara beamed. "It's finally beginning to look a lot like Christmas," she enthused.

"I don't get it," Mandy said as a much cheered Sara shut off her phone. "What difference do candy canes make? If the gloves never came off, there still won't be any prints."

"You ever tried opening one of those packets with gloves on?"

Mandy couldn't say she had. "Am more of a chocolate sort of girl."

"You can't. Not unless you use your teeth."

"You thinking DNA?"

Sara nodded. "Saliva may be gross, but the stuff's loaded with DNA."

xxxxxxx

Unfortunately, Su-lyn Lee wasn't any happier to see them the second time.

"Why you asking if I sweep up? You accuse me of keeping a dirty store?" she demanded as Sara and Mandy scanned the floor.

Ignoring Lee's latest tirade, Sara clicked on her mag light and bent to peer along the bottom of the shelves on either side of the main aisle.

After a moment, her beam sent back the sudden sparkle of discarded cellophane.

xxxxxxx

"Got to be a first," Captain Jim Brass mused, thumbing through the lab report in front of him. "Caught by candy cane."

He addressed the portly, ragged, balding middle-aged man slumped in front of him. "Been taking a bit too much of the good stuff, Ralphie?" he asked mimicking lifting a bottle. "Want a coffee? Soda? Or is milk more your thing?"

That Ralph Parker only sat there stewing in his intoxicated haze didn't deter Brass in the slightest.

"Impersonating the big guy on Christmas. Pretty bold move. Bet that puts you permanently on his naughty list. Certainly does with Las Vegas County. And -" Brass scanned a finger down Parker's rap sheet. "This conviction is strike three. You know what that means, Ralphie: life without parole. Sure you don't want to give up the rest of your merry men?"

Parker only glared.

"Okay. Okay. Your choice. Just know we've got your DNA at the scene. That got us a warrant to search your work locker. Boss was only too happy to let us have a look."

Brass set the print of a slightly grubby looking Santa suit hanging in a locker in front of Parker.

"Next time," Brass suggested. "You might want to ditch the suit. Haven't found the gun yet, but we will."

Then Brass leaned in; whispered conspiratorially, "But you and me, we both know you're just another guy in a red suit. And it's the Big Guy we really want.

"So think about it. After all, I doubt there's a heck of a lot of milk and cookies in prison.

"Or candy canes."


	4. Toy Trouble and More Naughty Than Nice

Act Three

 **"Toy Trouble"**

"You sure we don't need to call the bomb squad in first? Clear the scene?" Nick asked Officer Mitch Mitchell as they attempted to wend their way through the wreckage of what had mere hours before been Las Vegas's premier toy boutique.

"Dispatch just mentioned a disturbance."

Apparently Dispatch was into understatement.

With all the air of a war zone, the former toy haven currently far more resembled toy hell. Finger paint rather than blood splattered everywhere. Thankfully, despite the city's lenient conceal and carry laws, the only guns at the scene were still zip-tied to their cardboard backings. Much of the rest of the merchandise hadn't fared so well. Candy spilled from upturned jars and crushed boxes crunched loudly underfoot. Several talking toys continued to squawk their protests, many horribly off key. Overturned fixtures created a veritable action figure apocalypse, while a zoo of stuffed animals scattered about the floor as if caught mid-flight, a few of them sadly missing their heads. Loose soccer balls, basketballs and bouncy balls congregated into puddles.

All the while over the store's sound system, a six year old Barry Gordon lamented "I'm gettin' nuttin' for Christmas, 'cause I ain't been nuttin' but bad."

Apropos, Nick mused, all things considered. Still shaking his head at the sight, he sighed, "I've heard Vegas has some killer shopping, but this is ridiculous."

Mitchell agreed. "At least nobody's dead. Yet."

"Not from want of trying."

Nick gestured to the rear of the shop where back in the recesses of The Toy Box's usually cozily appointed book nook, store security had managed to corral the presumed perpetrators. Though there was little doubt the lot was guilty. While they all looked definitely the worse for wear, hair and clothes and coats disheveled, several sported cuts and what Nick knew would later prove impressive bruises. Surveying the lot, he did a mental head count and sighed.

"Six crazy women and a - gay guy -" For the lone man sulking in one corner attempting to compose his disheveled hair and clothes looked far too polished and perfectly dressed to be straight. "Did all this?" Nick finished incredulously.

"Apparently."

"Look, I told you already," came the hassled and harassed voice from over by the counter.

From his as yet cowering condition and the candy colored uniform emblazoned with the name _Fred_ in block script over the breast pocket, Nick figured this must be the source of the call in: Fred Gailey, The Toy Box's nigh time sales manager. Poor guy had definitely managed to pull the short straw when it came to late night Christmas Eve duty.

Harried and sporting a shiner of his own, Fred continued, "About an hour before closing the owner stops by. Says he's got something that has to go out on the sales floor immediately. Already posted it on social media and everything. Told me to take the highest offer at closing. And he... He just left. And it was... It was... awful. All the pushing and the shoving. Worse than Black Friday. When the bidding got too high most of them went home, but not them."

He indicated the motley group half huddled about the near empty bookshelves; half scrunched into a series of toddler-sized chairs; all attempting to catch their breath and put themselves to rights again. Well, nearly all. One middle aged blonde, who with her dancing pigtails and flouncing short shirt far more resembled the captain of a high school cheer squad than the soccer mom she more likely was, hasn't stopped talking once.

"I mean I just can't believe it - I can't believe it." Alas, Bailey did sound as shellshocked as his words. "We get one Muddy in and the place suddenly turns into a mad house."

Officer Mitchell leaned in closer to Nick and asked _sotto voce_ , "What's a Muddy?"

Nick scoffed. "You live under a rock, man? They gotta be running the ads twenty-four/seven. You know..." Nick began to sing and dance to the jingle. "'Muddy the puppy - Muddy the puppy - He's my best friend - Muddy the puppy - Muddy the puppy - The adventures never end.'"

Mitchell gawked at him.

"What?"

"Might not want to quit your day job."

Nick shook his head. "Everyone's a critic. Muddy's only THE must have toy of 2012."

"You're telling me all this -" Mitchell motioned at the destroyed store. "Is over a _toy_?"

"Not just any toy," countered Nick. "Like I said. THE toy. Happens all the time. Must be what - almost thirty years ago now, my cousin Carol HAD to have a Cabbage Patch Kid. Remember Teddie Ruxpin? Or Furbies? Just don't get me started on Tickle-Me-Elmo. All I know is Muddy's the only toy on my nephew Tyler's Christmas list.

"Except there aren't any. Anywhere. Not in stores. Not in the whole state of Texas. Not even on Ebay. Nada. Not one, no where, no how.

"But what I don't get is why this is the crime lab's problem. Why they called you in I get, but..."

Mitchell shrugged. "Want to know who to charge with what I guess."

Nick figured that probably was as good a reasons as any. At the moment it was precisely how to work the scene he wasn't entirely sure of. What he did know: it was about to turn into a very a long night.

He was about to find a place to set down his scene case when he noticed how Gailey, still clutching the Muddy to him like a shield, brightened at the sight of the uniformed cop heading towards him.

"You guys the calvary?"

Neither had a chance to answer before the clerk shoved the Muddy at Mitchell.

"Take it. Just take it. Please. I never - NEVER - want to see another of those damn dogs again."

As Mitchell rather reluctantly did, the somewhat subdued group immediately shot to their feet.

"Hey, that's my Muddy!" A round faced rather youthful looking for middle age African American woman with close cropped dark hair wielded her Starbucks cup at them.

The lanky, big eyed, crimson cheeked and freckled woman behind her tossed her mop of short, shaggy red hair and exclaimed, "Over my dead body."

The impeccably coiffed and coutured man who seemed far better suited to gracing the pages of glamour mag than a six pack of suspects hissed, "That can be arranged."

Next, a tall, leggy, overly buxom plastic blonde chimed in, "I don't know how they do things on the wrong side of town -"

The now livid black woman shot her an _I know you just didn't_ glare before placing both of her hands on her hips and managing to slosh coffee all over the front of her dress. "You talking to me?" she demanded. "You talking to me? Because I know you don't want me to go all ghetto on your ass."

Pigtails hopped as the chatty cheerleader bounced on the balls of her feet. "Guess you can take the girl out of the ghetto, but you can't take the ghetto out of the girl."

"Really," harrumped a pudgy, obviously dyed blonde to conceal her true age older woman still attempting to adjust her granny glasses.

Nick thought it best to step in before things came to blows.

"Ladies - Gentleman - Can we please dial it down a notch -"

"Or two," grumbled Mitchell, the hand not grasping the Muddy hovering over his holster.

"Or twelve," piped Gailey.

A slightly shorter, less busty yet no less plastic looking brunette jeered, "Or what? You gonna call the cops?"

Nick replied, "We are the cops. Well, crime lab and cop."

Mitchell nodded.

The erstwhile cheerleader sidled up to Nick. Resting a hand on his chest, she purred, "If they all look like you, you can frisk me anytime."

"Down girl," laughed the gay man, though truth be told, he'd been actively admiring the investigator himself.

The black woman tisked while the excessively well-endowed blonde shook her head. "Once a ho, alway a ho."

"Who," began the pigtails, "are you calling a ho, Barbie?"

"Barbie? Barbie?!"

"Yeah, you," should have retired her pompoms and stuck to being a soccer mom replied. She indicated the equally fake brunette. "Your friend Skipper. And -" she nodded to the dimpled-cheeked, wavy-haired fashionista. "Your boyfriend Ken over there."

Now that Nick thought about it, the trio certainly appeared as if any of them could have stepped from of one of the pink surrounded cellophane windows that litter the floor. A perfect Ken, Barbie and Skipper if he ever saw one.

"We're not related," sneered Skipper.

At Officer Mitchell's persistent blank stare, Nick sighed, "You must not have had a sister."

Mitchell shrugged. "Might be time for bad cop, Hoss. As good cop sure ain't getting us anywhere."

Nick peered at the Muddy in Mitchell's hands. "I suppose we could just split it seven ways. Worked for Solomon."

Gailey motioned for Nick and Mitchell to come closer. "Look, I don't want any more trouble. It's already late and if I don't get home soon, I've got a stepdaughter who's going to wake up to a box and not a bicycle for Christmas. If it means I get to go home, I'll gladly drop the charges."

Mitchell indicated it was Nick's call. Nick considered this for a moment before addressing the rest.

"Okay, this is what's going to happen. As far as I'm concerned, you're all responsible." Before any of them could even think to protest, Nick insisted, " _Equally responsible_. So the way I see it, we've got two options here."

He turned to Gailey. "How much you think to clean up all this mess?"

"Insurance should cover most of the damage," Gailey replied, "but between overtime for the clean up and the deductible, I'd say somewhere around eighteen hundred bucks."

Nick did the math. "That comes to... Two-fifty a piece. I'll even chip in the last fifty. If you all pay up quietly now my man..."

"Fred," supplied Fred.

Nick slipped an arm around Fred's shoulder. "My man Fred can still make it home in time to put - what's your stepdaughter's name?"

"Susan."

"Susan's bike together for Christmas."

Unsurprisingly, Nick's proposal didn't exactly prove popular. The lot of them started up again in protest, each attempting to shout ever louder over the other.

"Or -" Nick began, but there was no way he could have possibly been heard over the bedlam.

Having had just about as much as he could take for one night, Officer Mitchell let out an impatient ear-piercing whistle, startling the store into silence.

"Or," Nick repeated in his usual indoor voice, pulling a pack of zip ties from his vest, "we haul the lot of you down to lock up. I spend the rest of my shift filling out the paperwork. Fun, fun, fun. While you all spend the next couple of nights in jail. First arraignment's not until the day after Christmas. That really how y'all want to spend your holiday?"

Their silence plainly indicated definitely not.

 _Good_ , thought Nick. Finally something they were all in agreement about.

"So what'll it be: Cash, check or charge?"

xxxxxxx

Officer Mitchell checked off each name from his list, as one by one, each of the as yet disgruntled shoppers surrendered cash or credit cards to Fred Gailey.

The red-haired pixie cut Ann Gruelle grumbled. Pudgy Sally Jane Petite pushed back her mat of dyed curls as she tried to keep the smile plastered on her face. Fiery Elizabeth Katz - _Betsy_ \- as she'd hurriedly corrected Mitchell - sipped again at what must have been by now a very cold latte to keep herself from cursing. Even the chatty one, Cathy Ryan seemed to be at a very sour loss for words.

Nick however grinned as the last of the Mattel trio handed over a handful of bills. Turning to Gailey, he said, "You need a hand with that bike?"

xxxxxxx

 **"More Naughty than Nice"**

The Fountains of Bellagio danced in time to soaring melodies of "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year," the signal for the start of yet another light, sound and water spectacle in front of the grand ornate Italianate hotel. Despite the lateness of the hour and the unseasonable snowiness, the considerable crowd of out-of-town onlookers stood as spellbound as ever.

Undersheriff Conrad Ecklie wasn't one of them. Silently cursing the weather, he stomped his feet and rubbed his glove-free hands together to stay warm as he waited outside the lobby's main entrance.

Tonight was definitely not proving to be a holly jolly holiday. He would very much rather be holed up comfortably at home enjoying the night off. Being undersheriff did have its perks after all. Tonight, he was stuck with the responsibilities.

His glower only grew at the sight of the white stuff coming down ever harder. Sara Sidle wasn't the only one not dreaming of a white Vegas Christmas. Ecklie gave his watch another hurried glance, his cold feet another stomp and thought about checking to see what was keeping his daughter, when he heard a voice call from behind him.

"Dad? Dad!"

At least she was dressed for the weather, he thought as Morgan decked in hat, scarves and gloves hurried over to him.

She gave him and his lack of winter accoutrements a hurried once over.

"Tell me you haven't been waiting out here the whole time."

"It's even chillier inside."

"Not having a Merry Christmas?"

"With the mayor, the sheriff and the chairman and C.E.O. of the largest resort consortium in town breathing down my neck -"

"Yeah, I didn't think so."

"Tonight makes twelve," Ecklie added. "Twelve straight nights. The mayor's managed to keep it out of the press so far, but if we don't catch these guys and quick -"

He didn't need to finish. While undersheriff wasn't an elected position, sheriff was and her loss of the casino lobby meant an inevitable loss at the polls, which in turn meant the new sheriff would be perfectly within his or her rights to hire and fire whomever he or she liked. And since shit, as the saying went, always ran downhill, Ecklie knew all to well he stood in the direct line of fire.

Hoping to take her father's mind off such an eventuality, Morgan shifted into work mode. "Brass said something about a gang of pickpockets. Sounds practically Dickensian. And not the Tiny Tim kind."

When her attempt to lighten the mood fell flat, she prompted, "He also mentioned a sting -"

"Got a dozen off-duty plain clothes working the crowd tonight."

Morgan had to work to keep the incredulity from her voice. "On Christmas Eve?"

With overtime budgets having been slashed of late, pay rises frozen and cuts proposed across the board, not to mention that in less than an hour the time-and-a-half of regular overtime would shift to the double time of holiday pay, Morgan wondered where on earth there had been the funds for the outlay. But then -

"When the sheriff calls," she sighed knowingly. "Well, when the sheriff's single largest campaign contributor calls -"

Which explained a lot. Except -

"But why me?"

Her father simply shrugged. "Told her I had my best on the case."

Morgan shot her father a _Don't try to snow me, Dad_ glare.

Ecklie opted for the far more honest: "Guess, I wanted an excuse to work with you."

Of course Morgan couldn't help but soften at this.

"You didn't need one," she said, uncurling the scarf from around her neck and proceeding to drape it about his. "All you had to do was ask."

They both shared a smile at this.

"Much better," she said giving his chest an affectionate pat. "The smile's a lot more convincing. Shall we?"

Keeping a surreptitious eye on the crowd, the two of them took their place along the railing.

As the final jaunty notes of "Frosty the Snowman" faded, Conrad Ecklie finally managed to summon up the courage to say what he'd been longing to say since the song began.

"Morgan?"

"Yeah, Dad?"

"You... uh... remember that last Christmas... With all of us?"

"Yeah," she replied, not entirely sure where he was going with this.

"I screwed up."

He cringed. While he hadn't meant to just blurt it out like that, Ecklie had. Still, it was the truth.

Morgan didn't seem to see it that way. Her "I don't remember -" was still as bemused as her previous _yeah_ had been.

"I did. Your mother... She asked me to pick up the last of your presents. What was it now... one of those baking things with the mixes... You know the ones you could make little cakes and stuff with -"

"An Easy Bake Oven?"

His nod left Morgan no less incredulous.

"It was what she said you wanted," Ecklie insisted. "Anyway, things were crazy at work - You know how it goes."

Morgan did.

"And I - I forgot. It was Christmas Eve when I finally remembered. I tried to sneak out to -"

"So you really didn't get called in that night?"

That Morgan definitely did remember.

"I did - on my way to the store. By the time I finally got there, the place was pretty much cleaned out."

It was Morgan's turn to shrug. "That chemistry set was way cooler anyway."

"You weren't disappointed?"

Her mother certainly had been. Actually it had been more like livid, but Ecklie didn't think that really worth mentioning at the moment.

"I got to pretend to be you. Plus -" At this her grin turned mischievous. "It made the best stink bombs. That and I used it to scare the pants of Julie Burns."

When her father looked more than a little scandalized at this, Morgan added, "She was the neighborhood bully, so I wouldn't feel too sorry for her, Dad. Besides it was just a little hydrochloric acid and -" Her voice trailed off. "Now that I think about it, you probably don't want too know. But it was _so_ worth being grounded an entire month for."

Still grinning, Morgan returned her attention the attendant crowd. Only her father wasn't entirely finished.

"Morgan, what I'm trying to say -"

"Dad, it's okay," she hurried to reassure him.

"It's not. Look, I know I was never there enough -"

"Dad -"

Only her further protest died unspoken as something strange suddenly caught her eye.

But Ecklie wasn't about to be deterred. "When you were growing up -"

"Dad -"

"I - I just wanted to say - I'm sorry -"

"Dad! Look!" Morgan insisted, nudging him to indicate what she'd been trying to show him.

Several people over, a slight, literally elfin-clad figure silently slipped through the crowd. Pausing to linger beside a well-heeled man in a very expensive overcoat who was far too busy chatting up the attractive woman at his side to be paying anyone or anything else any heed, the elf adeptly retrieved Mr. Expensive Overcoat's wallet before equally expertly secreting it into his own festive green tunic.

Morgan breathed, "You seeing what I'm seeing?"

Ecklie let out his own disbelieving murmur of "Elves," before correcting himself. "Little people."

"With little hands. The better to pick pockets with."

xxxxxxx

Back in one of Metro's not entirely comfortable interrogation suites, Captain Brass settled into what was swiftly becoming that night his regular seat. Wordlessly, he dumped the contents of a large sack onto the interview table causing an assortment of wallets, watches and keys to cascade everywhere.

To the diminutive handcuffed figure ensconced in front of him he quipped, "You've definitely naughty. Unless you just take a really bad driver's license photo -"

Brass flipped open a random wallet to reveal the I.D.

"Ten times, Mr. Santiago."

The far more surly than sweet elf merely crossed his arms over his vest.

"It's Chris," he corrected.

Brass couldn't help but ask, "As in Kringle?"

"Cute," scoffed Chris. "Like I haven't heard that one before. As in Walker."

"Any relation to Johnie?"

"If only."

To which Brass had to agree.

"So, _Chris,_ you want to explain all of this -" The police captain indicated the treasure trove of stolen goods before him.

Walker shrugged. "Man's got to make a buck."

xxxxxxx

Jim Brass got much the same once the cops had managed to round up the other three members of Walker's not so merry little band.

Still be-capped and decked out in regulation red and green, the three sat dwarfed behind the big table, their satin slippered feet still swinging unable to touch the floor.

"Got to eat just like everybody else," offered the olive skinned, dark curled Nicholas Papadopoulos.

Brass turned to the lone woman. With the chubby cheeks and dimples to match, she had all the looks of a jolly little elf - apart from the scowl scrawled across her face.

"And you - Miss -"

"King, Noel King," she grumbled. "And yeah that is my real name. And before you ask, no, I wasn't the first. Idiot parents thought it was cute. Stupid really as I was born in July."

"Christmas in July?" Brass helpfully supplied.

"Whatever," was all she replied. "You got kids? I've got four," Noel plowed on, neither waiting nor particularly interested in hearing his reply. "You think all those toys just magically appear under the tree?"

"So you're saying an elf's got to do what an elf's got to do?"

This time the third elf piped in. Straw-haired, blue-eyed Klaus Jansen with a belly that would have jiggled like a bowl full of jelly given the chance, moaned, "You know what the going rate for elves is these days? Somewhere between zip and zilch - I mean how much demand do you think there is for a guy like me in Vegas? They all want Santa's sexy little helper."

"Slutty's more like," cracked Noel.

"And believe you me," Klaus continued patting his formidable stomach, "you don't want to see this in a G-string."

Still Brass was flummoxed.

"But elves?"

Ultimately, it was Walker who provided the answer.

"Why not? Already had the costumes. Besides, who'd suspect an elf?"

 _To be continued in Act Four:_ Grandpa Got Run Over by a Reindeer


	5. Grandpa got run over by a reindeer

Act Four

 **"Grandpa Got Run Over by a Reindeer"**

By the time Greg arrived at the Bailey house out in Seven Hills, not all the merry music blaring from his radio could counter the fact that Sara was indeed right: no one in Vegas had a clue what to do when it came to driving in the snow. Not that Greg would ever give her the satisfaction of telling her so.

At least he hadn't had any trouble finding the house. While Sin City normally decked itself out in neon shades, there weren't exactly all that many three times life-size Santa and his sleigh rooftop displays. The Griswold's certainly had nothing on this guy; Greg swore they probably could see the thing from outer space.

He for one simply stood there stunned for a moment.

The scene was just so - wrong.

Jolly old Saint Nick beamed over the chaos of flashing cruiser lights, fluttering crime scene tape, and attendant onlookers gathered about gawking just like he was, not to mention the herd of fallen reindeer scattered everywhere.

Nor had Nick been pulling his leg. Not if it really was the body assistant medical examiner David Philips was kneeling beside. Grandpa really had got run over by a reindeer. Rudolph apparently, to judge by the still blinking red nose.

Still shaking his head at the sight, Greg slipped under the yellow tape.

At the sudden loud crack, scrape, then whistle, Greg spun just in time to spy the flaming fireball of a falling reindeer plummet to the ground behind him.

"What the -"

"Comet," Dave simply submitted utterly nonplussed.

 _Comet?_ Greg mouthed as several uniforms set about attacking the blaze.

"Need to get that power off. Now!" One of them called.

As if on cue, the bright lights crashed to black, leaving an unnerving deep darkness behind.

Greg clicked on the Maglite from his vest and set down his case before proceeding to shoot all the usual locator shots.

This done, Dave indicated the hefty heavy duty plastic figure. "Give me a hand."

It took a minute for the two of them to wrestle Rudolph off the victim. In the process the deer's head popped loose bouncing off into the snow, only to inexplicably land smile up.

"So wrong..." Greg muttered under his breath.

The previously pinned, as yet unidentified, mature male certainly looked old enough to be somebody's grandpa, if the tightly cropped white hair was any indication. How he ended up under the reindeer was at this point anybody's guess.

But it was the pair of pruning shears the dead man grasped in his ungloved hands that really had the duo stumped.

"What do you think?" Suggested Dave, "he was just trying to take a little off the top?"

xxxxxxx

Usually Metro's morgue proved a fairly peaceful sort of place; the dead far too busy being dead to make much of a ruckus. Early that Christmas morning however found the place positively rocking.

Greg pushed open the doors to find Dave and Doc Robbins jamming to Chuck Berry's "Run Rudolph Run."

Dave belted, " _Said Santa to a boy child, 'What have you been longing for?_ '"

Doc replied, " _'All I want for Christmas is a rock and roll electric guitar.' And away went Rudolph a whizzing like a shooting star."_

Together they chorused, " _Run, run, Rudolph, Santa's got to make it to town_..." only to trail off at the sight of Greg still standing in the doorway, though neither looked the least bit sheepish or embarrassed to be caught.

"Talk about a captive audience," Greg grinned, motioning to the dead body before them. "Practicing to take the act on the road? I can see it now. All up in lights: Doctor Death and the Stiffs."

Doc shrugged. "Got to get it in while I can. Judy's moratorium on Christmas music starts tomorrow."

"Thought you'd be home all snug in your bed."

"Had to see this for myself."

"Attack of the killer reindeer." Dave practically beamed. "Has to be a first. Even for Vegas."

"Turns out Rudolph was the least of his problems," Robbins intoned. Reverting to task, Doc motioned for Dave to shut off the music and Greg to come join him at the autopsy table. "Was dead before he hit the ground. Official C.O.D: sudden cardiac arrest."

"Resultant from...?" Greg asked knowing all too well that _sudden cardiac arrest_ was the convenient catch-all for all sorts of actual events.

"Shock."

"Since when does Christmas scare someone to death?"

"Electric shock," clarified Doc. "As in 240 volts."

From behind them Dave let out a laconic, "Current kills."

Greg had a hard time keeping the surprise from his: "Victim was electrocuted?"

"Mr. Cylde Potter was indeed."

Taking up one of the victim's gnarled hands, Doc turned it palm up, the better for Greg to examine.

"See the leathery discolorations? That's your point of entry."

This made sense well enough. Only one problem. Greg gave Potter's exposed feet a puzzled look.

"But his feet are fine."

"Current didn't exit through his feet."

At Doc's nod, Dave rolled up the sheet to reveal the victim's charred left knee.

"Classic low-voltage burn. Current followed the path of least resistance straight through his heart. Sent him into ventricular fibrillation. Technically 'a chaotic asynchronous fractionated activity of the heart.'"

"In English, Doc?"

"When a sudden shock throws off the heart's regular rhythm, the muscles twitch rather than contract, causing the heart to loose it's ability to pump blood. Once that happens -"

Greg could fill in the blanks from there. "Plenty of electricity at the scene. Place was lit up like The Strip on steroids when we got there."

"Wouldn't take much. The heart has a pretty low threshold when it comes to current," Doc explained. "Theoretically a nine volt or even a triple-A battery applied directly to the heart could kill you. At normal household amperage, 25-40 milliseconds is enough to trigger arrhythmia. Go into v-fib for more than a couple of seconds and -"

"Lights out. Permanently," finished Dave.

"But wouldn't a jolt like that throw you?"

Robbins shook his head. "Only in the movies. At 240 volts, the grab reflex kicks in."

"Which is why he still had the shears in his hands when we found him."

This earned Greg a knowing nod.

"Only way he was going to let those go was to pry them from his cold dead hands.

"What was he doing with clippers on the roof anyway?" asked Doc.

While Dave joked, "Didn't come in with a bag of toys, so I'm thinking he wasn't headed down the chimney," Greg only echoed, "Roof?"

"Postmortem fractures of the neck and back are consistent with a fall from twenty to thirty feet. Unless you found him near a ladder, roof's my best guess."

Knowing this meant a return trip to Summerlin through the snow, Greg groaned.

xxxxxxx

He wasn't the only one.

Captain Brass drained yet another paper cup's worth of crappy cop coffee, almost desperately wishing it was spiked with something a lot stronger than sugar. With a reluctant sigh of his own, he gave his next interviewee a further once over through the window.

However decked out in a flashing Rudolph sweater Brass wouldn't be caught dead in either for love or money, tall, lanky Harry Bailey looked like he'd lost that festive feeling.

"So," he demanded before Brass had fully made it through the door. "When are my lights getting turned back on?"

"Guy's dead. More important than a couple of lights, don't you think?"

Bailey let out a snide, "A quarter of a million isn't _a couple of lights_."

"And electrocution is no joke."

"You see me laughing?"

Brass set a plain manilla folder on the table. "So we went back. Had a look. Make sure the display wasn't defective."

"Not possible," insisted Bailey, the pride unmistakeable in his: "Laid the cable myself. Electrician - NV Energy - fifteen years. I know how to run cable."

"Must be a heck of an employee discount to power that many lights. Or you just angling for job security?"

Bailey made no reply to this; didn't matter, Brass didn't really expect one.

"Funny," he added, flicking the file open. "You never mentioned having a beef with the victim."

He placed a printout of the victim's I.D. in front of Bailey.

"A Clyde Potter. Sixty-eight. And your next door neighbor."

"And the biggest Scrooge you'd ever meet," countered Harry. "Wouldn't know Christmas if it -"

"Ran over him with a reindeer?" finished Brass. "Anyway - Neighbors say they saw the two of you arguing outside your house just last night. Said it _got a little heated_. And apparently it wasn't the first time."

"Potter had a beef with me. Every year it's the same thing: complain, complain, complain. Thanksgiving through New Years. The lights kept him up at night. Too many cars in the neighborhood. Too many people, too. Couldn't stand to see so many people enjoying themselves if you ask me."

"He ever do anything more than just complain?"

"Yeah, he used to shut them off every time I'd leave the house. Had to move the controls into the garage last year. And last week I found him lurking around the fuse box."

"Hence the hefty Master lock," concluded Brass, flipping him the photo of a banged up fuse box secured with a large formidable brass lock. "Any chance you installed something else? Some sort of booby trap? Would be a piece of cake for a qualified electrician like yourself."

"Do I look stupid?" asked Bailey. The good captain opted not to answer. "You don't play around with electricity. You do, you end up dead."

"Like Potter."

"Exactly."

Brass let the sudden silence stretch on.

"Look," Bailey insisted, having come to the conclusion that nothing he'd said in the past few minutes helped his case. " _I_ didn't do anything wrong. I certainly had nothing to do with him ending up dead. I'm the victim here. Or aren't trespassing and the wanton destruction of private property a crime anymore?"

Brass decided to ignored this, too.

"Apparently," the captain patiently began, "when he couldn't get into the fuse box, Potter decided on a more direct approach."

xxxxxxx

Several hours earlier, a furious Clyde Potter stormed to the rear of Bailey's Summerlin house. Further enraged at finding the fuse box locked, he set to wailing on it with his heavy duty flashlight. All to no avail.

Still furious, he stalked back home, proceeded to lug a ladder from his garage; slammed it against Bailey's siding. Still cursing under his breath, he selected a set of hedge clippers from his neatly organized tool rack.

Shears in hand, he climbed, then stomped across the roof, nearly slipping once or twice on the unexpected snow as he searched for a patch of cable he could get his cutters under.

Finally find one, he knelt to set about cutting. Only the shears couldn't cut clean through the thick cabling. He continued to work, repeatedly scissoring through it until -

Spark!

Electricity from the line raced through the metal clippers into the body via his gloveless hands. Unobstructed, it zoomed through blood vessels, struck the heart, sent the organ into sluggish chaos, all before ultimately speeding down his leg and out through his snow-soaked slacks.

Clippers now firmly in hand, the now dead Clyde Potter toppled forward, sliding in the snow down the slope of the roof. One foot caught on, then tugged free a tethered cord as he went.

Which was when gravity pitched in at its usual force of 9.8 meters per second squared. Not only did Potter pitch over the edge of the roof, his snagged shoe tugged several of the reindeer along with him, Rudolf leading the fray.

The resultant crash woke half the neighborhood.

xxxxxxx

Back in the equally icy interrogation room, a cold Harry Bailey cooly concluded, "Death by stupid."

Brass frowned. "Wouldn't even crack my top ten."

"Got what he deserved if you ask me."

The captain hadn't.

"You don't sound all that sorry."

"Like I told you," Bailey maintained. "I didn't do anything wrong here -"

Jim Brass shook his head. So much for _peace on earth, goodwill towards men_.

xxxxxxx

"Guy's right," Greg reluctantly agreed, finally having finished regaling Nick and Sara about the night's misadventures as they sat huddled around one of the few populated tables at Frank's, the three in the midst of indulging as they were in a holiday tradition of their own: the celebratory post holiday shift from hell meal.

"Technically, the only thing Bailey's guilty of is bad taste."

"And if that were illegal, you'd have to lock up three quarters of the city," said Nick.

"Well, that and global warming," countered Sara. "At least all those lights at the Springs Preserve are 100% solar powered."

"But a quarter of a million lights?" Nick asked still incredulous.

Greg quipped, "Maybe he never got that Lite Brite he wanted for Christmas."

Anything was possible. It was Vegas after all.

Over Frank's loudspeakers Perry Como crooned, " _There's no place like home for the holidays._ "

A pretty young waitress stopped to pour coffee into their upturned mugs. Both Nick and Greg eye her with interest. Sara only smirked. _Some things never changed._

However true, this didn't keep Sara from let out a not entirely discrete cough.

She lifted her mug in salute. "To surviving Christmas."

"Surviving Christmas," the guys chorused as they all clicked cups.

"Again," Greg sighed with relief. Unnecessarily picking up his menu - the menu at Frank's hadn't changed since they had started going there more than a decade before - he asked, _"_ We expecting anyone else?"

Nick replied, "Finn said she had somewhere to be. She didn't say. I didn't ask."

In reality, Julie Finlay had driven out to the desert. Finally finding a spot she liked, she pulled off the side of the road, shut down her engine and got out of her car.

Tugging her coat a bit tighter about herself, she smiled, enjoying the peace and quiet of a now starlit silent night and thinking that perhaps there was still as yet a bit of peace on earth to be found after all.

"What about Morgan?" Greg asked, trying and failing to conceal his hopeful tone.

"Was headed out with her dad, last time I saw her," Nick replied, happy as he'd been to see that the two had been arm-in-arm and laughing as they went.

"Russell ask for a raincheck," said Sara, more statement than question.

It didn't take a level three investigator to work out where the boss had gone and the welcome he would find when he got there.

Sara had imagined it rather close to reality. As he pulled into his drive, Russell found his wife Barb perched on their front porch steaming cup of coffee in hand, contentedly taking in the way the holiday lights glistened against the snow as she waited for her husband to come home.

With a grin of his own, he bounded up the stairs. Before either could say anything, he dangled a fresh sprig of mistletoe over their heads.

Not that he needed it.

Sara tried not to be too jealous at the thought.

"Please tell me you did not get that from out of evidence," she said at the sight of Greg whipping out his own spray of mistletoe.

"Nope. Just thought it might come in handy."

"Don't look a me," Sara insisted.

Greg gave the waitress another unmistakably approving glance.

"Keep dreaming there, Romeo," chucked Nick. "She's way out of your league."

Sensing an argument might be in the offing, Sara cut in with a knowing, "You do know that mistletoe wasn't always a license for unlimited kissing."

"No, hadn't heard that," Nick replied equally as urbane. "But since when are you such a philematologist? You know - a person who studies kissing?"

"I've got a guess," interjected Greg.

Sara ignored them both.

"Originally, you plucked a berry from the sprig after each kiss," she continued, reaching across the table to remove first one berry and then another. "The kissing only lasted as long as the berries held out."

When they looked askance at her continuing to denude the rest of the twig, she smirked, "Someone's got to keep you out of trouble." She turned to Nick. "You." Then faced Greg. "More than you."

"Hey!" Greg protested.

Nick gave Greg a hearty pat on the back and an utterly unapologetic, "Truth hurts, man."

Nick was about to tell Sara that perhaps he really didn't want to know how she knew all that, when the bell over Frank's front door let out a joyful tinkle.

Sara, the last of the berries pinched between forefinger and thumb, peered up.

From the way her face instantly brightened, the guys didn't even have to turn around to know who'd come through the door.

Overhead, Como concluded:

 _Oh, there's no place like home for the holidays_

' _Cause no matter how far away you roam_

 _If you want to be happy in a million ways_

 _For the holidays, you can't be home, sweet home._

No place indeed.

xxxxxxx

Curious to see what happens next? See _Special_.

xxxxxxx

P.S. If you were more nice than naughty this year, you might, just might, find something else in your stocking soon...


End file.
